The city dove
speaks in riddle,
clings to my window pane;
the summer’s in birth
from the trees to the Earth
and something in me has changed.
I remember her hair
smelled like an orange field
I remember her hands were cool.
I remember the November
we were together
“I am fortune’s fool.”
A scuff in your boots
and blood on your cuff.
There’s moonshine in a tin cup,
the bottle’s run dry
and I don’t know why
this time wasn’t enough.
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